Fallout New Vegas : A James Bond Tale
by FlossSwallower
Summary: When 007 meets the Mojave, and the Mojave meets him, danger awaits.
1. 007, Meet the Mojave

(Note : This James Bond will be more similar to the books, meaning basically he has black hair, is more suave and less Daniel Craig-y, and M. is a man. Leave reviews! P.S : I do not own James Bond or anything else created by Ian Fleming.)

CHAPTER ONE

_007, Meet the Mojave_

Slowly Bond's eyes opened, his vision turning from blurry to clear. He blinked a few times and noticed the middle-aged man sitting beside him. His skin had a deep tan and was wrinkled. He had a moustache and a hair of white.

"Well," the man finally said. "I guess you woke up."

He had an American accent.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked.

Bond shook his head.

"Well, where you all together are is Goodsprings. You probably already know where that is," the man said.

Bond shook his head again.

"Hmm. The Mojave. Anyway, do you remember how you got here? It'd be a hard thing to forget," the man said.

Bond shook his head once more.

"You were shot and apparently buried alive. A local RobCo robot dug you out and brought you here. By the way, what's your name?" he asked.

"Bond, James Bond," Bond replied.

"Hmm. Not exactly what I'da picked for ya, but oh well. I'm Doc Mitchell. By the way, how are you feeling? You think you can stand up all right?" Doc Mitchell asked.

Bond shrugged, and slowly sat up. He groaned a bit as he made it to full height.

"Good, good, now why don't you try walking around a bit?" Doc Mitchell asked, standing up with Bond. Bond walked to the opposite end of the room and back.

"Well, you certainly look like you recovered from that bullet mighty fast," the doctor said.

"Do you have a lavatory around here I could use?" Bond asked.

"Sure, sure, right by the Vigor Tester over there. I'll tell you what that is in a minute. Here, take this mirror if you plan on brushing your hair or teeth or anything, most of the kinds of mirrors that you hang up on walls are broken around here," Doc Mitchell said, handing him a small mirror.

"Thanks," Bond replied, and made his way to the lavatory. He then relieved himself, washed his hands and looked into the small mirror.

Two cold, gray eyes looked back at him with a hint of ironical inquiry in them. Surrounding the two cold eyes was a face. Hanging above the face's right eye was a black comma of hair, which, even after he in a few moments would try to brush away, would remain hanging away from the rest. On the right cheek of the face containing these two eyes and one black comma was a faint vertical scar (Please note, readers, that this is how Bond was described in the books).

Well, at least something felt familiar. Bond brushed his hair, and couldn't find a toothbrush, or toothpaste for that matter, so he decided to let his teeth rot for a while.

"Ah, I guess you're done with all your business? All right, then, let me introduce you to the Vigor Tester," Bond heard the doctor say as he (Bond) exited the lavatory.

Bond closed the door and looked over at where the man was standing. There, against the wall, stood what looked more like something you'd find in a casino.

"This baby can recognize all your traits and characteristics as soon as you pull the lever. Go ahead and try it, we'll see how healthy you really are," Doc Mitchell said.

Bond pulled the lever. A sound emitted from the machine that once again reminded him of something out of a casino, and then something popped up. Seven categories appeared on the screen in slots with numbers beside them. They were basic statistics a person might have, strength, intelligence, etc. Most of Bonds were at a five, except for agility, which was at a 6. But one really stood out from the others. Luck. That was at a nine.

"Huh. With your luck, I'm surprised the bullets didn't just turn around and go back the other way!" Doc Mitchell exclaimed. _And to think, I was gonna invite him to a game of caravan! _Doc Mitchell thought, mentally reassuring himself of his money.

Bond grinned at his results then said, "So now what?"

"Well, I guess that's about all. You can stay here for a few more days if you want, but you seem to be perfectly healthy. But, seein' how you have no place to stay, you're welcome here any time you want. I'll walk you to the door," Doc Mitchell said, and did so.

"Well, here are a few things I found on ya. Hope they can be of some help," Doc Mitchell said by the door and handed Bond a Walther PPK, a gray lighter, and a Mojave Express order.

Hmm, that's odd, Bond thought. Something in the back of his mind told him he was usually with Universal Exports Co. He shrugged it off and said, "Thanks for fixing me up."

"No problem. By the way, take this Pip-Boy. They gave them to us in the vaults, but I don't have much use of it anymore. You look like a wanderer, so you probably can find some use of it, though. I'd offer you some clothes, but the ones you've got on look fine. Heck, they even look Pre-War," Doc Mitchell said.

Bond looked down at his clothes. He wore a black suit and black tie, covering a white dress-shirt, hanging above a pair of black dress-pants, hanging above a pair of shoes.

"Well, like I said, come back anytime you want. You should probably see Sunny Smiles before you leave town, she can teach you how to survive in the Mojave," Doc Mitchell said.

Bond grinned and replied, "I think I can handle myself. Goodbye, Mitchell."

The doctor hated it when people just called him by his last name. So formal. "Bye, Mr. Bond," he replied, and the expert gambler and shooter made his way out the door.


	2. A Favor for a Pack of Cigarettes

CHAPTER TWO

_A Problem For a Pack of Cigarettes_

The light hit Bond's eyes sharply and cruelly as he exited the house, like a baby seeing the world for the first time. He squinted as his eyes began to adapt, then found it was still best to squint as the sun glared down upon the small town before it.

A taste formed in Bond's mouth that told him he wanted a cigarette. He didn't know how he knew this, but he had a feeling he smoked a lot. Bond viewed the town. A road ran by it, and right by the road was a windmill, a few houses, and what looked like a bar. By the bar where what looked like a few more stores, maybe, and the rest of the house was just wooden shacks and boarded up houses. On the edge of town, on a rise like Bond was currently standing on, was a gas station. Should have some cigarettes there, Bond thought, and made his way past the picket fence before him, down the hill, and towards the gas station. When Bond reached the gas station, he saw through the boarded up window that it was dark. Suddenly Bond wondered if this was a ghost town. But no, there was that doctor. And that doctor himself had said something about a robot and somebody named 'Sunny Smiles.'

Bond pushed open the doors of the gas station.

"Freeze."

The light poured in from the brutal desert behind Bond so that he could see dust lingering and floating in the air, and the man holding the gun in front of him. Bond realized with his hands out to the side holding the doors open, frozen in motion, he didn't have much of a chance of reaching for his gun. Bond didn't just come from the grave just to be sent back to it like a child trying to sneak out to get a cookie when grounded. He was about to duck and lunge when the man before him sighed.

"Eh, you don't look like a Powder Ganger. Sorry about that, I'm just nervous as hell," the man said, and put his gun down on the counter beside him and turned around.

Bond lowered his arms and let the door shut.

"Powder Ganger?" Bond asked.

The man turned around and looked at Bond. "Yeah, a Powder Ganger. What, you don't know what a Powder Ganger is?" he said.

Bond shook his head.

"Great. You must not be from around here," the man said.

"I honestly don't know that either," Bond said.

The man gave Bond that look again, then sighed and started pacing around.

"Mind if I grab some cigarettes?" Bond asked.

"Go ahead," the man said, gesturing to the shelves behind him.

As Bond grabbed a pack and then stuffed a few more into his pockets, he said, "Say, I don't have any money at the moment to pay for these, but you sound like you have a problem. Maybe I could help?"

"If you feel like getting shot," the man replied.

"Oh, I didn't seem to mind it so much the last time," Bond said.

"What?"

"Nothing. The point is, I need some cigarettes. So let me help you out. I assume the Powder Gangers are a gang?" Bond asked.

"Yeah, just another chain gang. Except this one won't get off my back. I just need some help getting rid of them. But just you and me can't take them all on. If you wanna do me a favor, get some people around town to help. By the way, those cigarettes are expired as hell, take these," the man said, and handed Bond a pack of cigarettes.

"Thanks," Bond said, threw the expired pack to the side, stuffed the new pack into his trouser pocket, and exited the gas station.


	3. Reflexes of the Mind

CHAPTER THREE

_Reflexes of the Mind_

Bond pulled out a cigarette and lit it as he walked down the hill, then stuck the cigarette in his mouth and put the lighter and pack away. He walked over to the bar. When he reached he noticed a man sitting outside in a rocking chair. Bond nodded towards him and he nodded back, and Bond entered the bar.

The first thing Bond noticed was that it was not a high class establishment. The second thing he noticed was that is was near empty. The only two people he could see were a man sitting at the bar and a middle-aged female bartender behind it. American music played from another room.

"What kind of currency do you accept?" Bond asked.

"Caps," the bartender flatly replied.

"Caps? You mean like bottle caps?" Bond asked.

"Yes, caps," she replied.

Bond looked around and snapped the caps off of a few empty bottles rolling around on the ground and sat down on of the stools at the bar. He dumped the caps on the bar.

"This enough for a dry martini and lemon peel?" Bond asked almost automatically. He had no idea where he'd gotten the idea for that particular drink. The bartender looked like she was thinking the same thing.

"Well, sorry, mister. We don't have any martinis around here. If you want that you can go to the Strip. We've got scotch, whiskey, beer, and wine," she explained.

"Whiskey and soda on the rocks," Bond said.

She mixed the drink, handed it to him, and said, "Sorry, no ice."

"Yes, I can see," Bond replied. He took a sip of his drink and realized yet another thing. It was terrible.

"So, why bottle caps?" Bond asked.

"'Cause that's what people pay in. Guess you're not from here, are you? Bottle caps are basically Mojave currency. And probably some other places use them, too. They're most easy to find, easy to produce, and light and easy to carry. There are other currencies, too, here in the Mojave. NCR money, that's most like Pre-War money, and Legion money. There's some fancy name for their money, but I can't remember it. Starts with a d. Donnaires? Donnanaires? I don't remember," she said.

"Legion? NCR?" Bond asked.

"The Legion are a bunch of slaving savages that dress themselves up like ancient Roman soldiers and consider themselves an army. Serve a guy named Caesar, again like ancient Roman, except the idiot doesn't know how to pronounce it right. The NCR is the New California Republic, more of an actual army. They protect Goodsprings and most other towns," she said.

"By the way, bartender, do you know anyone who might want to fight some Powder Gangers?" Bond asked.

"Oh, are you helping out Ringo? Figures. Anyway, maybe Sunny. She's always looking for a good fight. Maybe some of the other people around the town if you can pay them. Never can trust mercenaries, though," she said.

"How about you? You look tough," Bond said.

"Well, what a wonderful compliment. And here I was worrying I looked womanly. Anyway, no, I'm a little too attached to my life to go out and get shot," she replied.

"Oh come on. They sound harmless, just a chain gang. Besides, there's tons of good cover spots around town," Bond said.

The bartender hesitated then said, "Oh, well, screw it, I'll help you."

"Thanks," Bond replied.

"Just don't go getting yourself shot before the actual battle. You're one of the few people I know around here that actually looks like they can handle a gun," she said.

Bond downed the rest of his drink and stood up. "Where did you say this Sunny Smiles might be?" he asked.

"Right in the other room," the bartender said, and jerked a thumb towards the back.

Bond followed these very short directions and walked into the other room. Tables were scattered around, all of them empty except one, where a girl in her teenage years sat with her dog by her side. Against the wall of the room was the jukebox where the music was coming from.

"Heard your conversation with Trudy. I'm in," she said.

"Didn't expect you to be so young. You sure? There's a fair chance you could get your head blown off," Bond said.

"I can handle a few Powder Gangers. The question is : Can you?" she asked.

Bond once again thought of what amazing ego's teenagers could have and said, "I'll be fine."

The girl nodded and Bond turned and left.


	4. A Rather Quick Battle

(Note : If you're reading this, really, leave a review. A writer with no reviews is a writer who no longer writes. And, of course, I don't own James Bond, I am merely a humble Ian Fleming and Fallout fan.)

CHAPTER FOUR

_A Rather Quick Battle_

Bond lit a cigarette as he sat in the chair waiting for the Powder Gangers. He'd gotten through the first pack long ago. He'd just now finished yet another pack. He threw the empty pack off to the side, leaned back in the wooden chair, and waited. Only a few days ago he'd been shot. Buried alive, too, apparently. He wondered why he had no memory of this. Like Doc Mitchell had said, it'd be a hard thing to forget. Perhaps he'd been shot in the head? And now what? Live in Goodsprings? Something told him that just wasn't what he was meant for. Something in the back of his mind kept bugging him about something, kept reminding him of a man with a pipe. He knew he wasn't gay, perhaps this man was a father? He couldn't be a brother, he remembered the man as a much older man. A man made of stern stuff, with a stern face. He kept thinking his name was Em, but that couldn't be it, he was no Em, Em wasn't the kind of name you'd give a man like him if you didn't want to get a swift kick to the teeth. Bond sighed and chewed on his cigarette. It just kept nagging him.

Here came what Bond guessed were the Powder Gangers. There were about five or six of them. In the front was what Bond supposed to be the leader, an African-American man dressed in similar clothes to his partners.

"Hey!" Bond yelled out.

One of the Powder Gangers turned towards Bond. As he did this, a bullet swam out from a Walther PPK. It flew through the air on its journey, tasting freedom from the darkness it had been trapped within for quite a long time, and twirling and twirling through the air until it finally hit against what first made it think it would have a soft landing, but then pushing through and cracking through something white and hard, then lodging itself in something red and meaty.

Then the other shots began, and soon the group of banditos was no more. Bond hadn't been shot any, which was very lucky, considering he shot the first shot. Hmm. Yeah, very lucky. Luck worth a 9 out of ten. The little casino machine might actually be more than it seemed.

Bond stood up from the chair. He figured he'd go to the gas station and get some more cigarettes, then head on out to New Vegas. Over the last few days while the town had been preparing for the fight with the Powder Gangers he'd asked Trudy some more about the Strip. Casinos with rooms to stay in, money to gain, and martinis to be drunk. Over the last few days Bond had been drinking nothing but their terrible whiskies and sodas and occasionally a drink they called "Nuka Cola." Bond was heading for the gas station when he heard a voice behind him.

"Hey, thanks for helping with the Powder Gangers," it said.

Bond turned around and saw Ringo.

"Here, take these caps. It's the least I can do for you after what you've done for me," Ringo said, and handed him a pouch.

Bond looked at the pouch and thought of something. If he was headed for New Vegas, he'd probably need more money than this. He smiled and said, "Say, Ringo, how about a game of caravan?"

Over the last few days he'd also learned of caravan. The basic idea was to build three piles of cards called caravans. Each caravans value couldn't be over 26. The goal was to get all three of your caravans all together to equal a higher amount than the other players. It seemed pretty simple. Ringo had given him a deck a few days ago. He was told you could continue to use the same deck for as many caravan games as you want.

Ringo grinned. Bond knew the American liked caravan.

"Why not?" Ringo said.

Soon the two were sitting in the bar in one of the booths. Bond picked out his cards to use from his deck as Ringo did the same. He chose mostly high-value cards.

"All done," Bond said.

"Same here. How much do you want to play for?" Ringo asked.

Bond thought a second. Ringo had told him there were 500 caps in the bag. Might as well get 1,000.

"500 caps," Bond replied. (Yes, I know, Ringo doesn't have that much money in the game.)

"Good number," Ringo said, and the game began.

Ringo took the first move, placing a 5 down on the table for his first caravan.

Deciding to save his bigger numbers for later, Bond also put a 5 down.

For his next caravan however, Ringo put down a ten. Bond copied his moves again and also put down a ten.

Ringo noticed this and put down a 4 for his third caravan. Bond put down a 7. He had two more tens, and he planned to use them.

Ringo put down a 7 on his first caravan. He seemed to be moving pretty quick. He must have a strategy. One he's confident of. Well, it was time to break that confidence.

Bond added a ten to his first caravan, adding up currently to fifteen. Already off to a good start. Wanting to get back up to the lead, Ringo put a ten down for his second caravan, adding up to a twenty.

Bond added up Ringo's current values of his caravans. His first caravan was worth 12. His second worth 20, his third still worth 4. His caravan's altogether added up to 36. The bastard was winning!

Bond placed his ten on his third caravan, in a hurry to get back to the lead but continuing to follow his plan. Bond added up how he was doing so far. His first caravan was fifteen, his second was still ten, and his third was seventeen. Forty-two. He was back in the lead.

Seeing this, Ringo put down a six in his second caravan, adding up to that caravan's full amount.

Bond decided it was time to heighten his second caravan's amount. He put down a nine. It's value was now nineteen. He had to get at least two of his caravans between 21 and 27 to win the game.

Ringo put down a seven on his first caravan, adding up to nineteen.

Bond put down a six in his second caravan, adding up to its full amount. The game was almost over. Bond would either lose all his money and win some more.

Ringo added a ten to his third caravan. Either an incredibly stupid move, or Ringo was letting him win. Bond looked up from his cards at Ringo's face to try to decide whether or not he was doing this. No, the American looked anxious, nervous, realizing he was about to lose his money and making moves in a hurry. Feeling no mercy, Bond placed a seven in his first caravan, which added up to 22.

He'd won.

Ringo sighed, looking at Bond's cards.

"Well, guess you're pretty well off now, huh, Mr. Bond?" he asked.

"It was a good game, friend," Bond said, standing up and collecting his cards.

"Gonna take a while to earn back that much money at the Crimson Caravan. Oh well, there's always the risk of losing money when you play with Lady Luck, huh?" Ringo said.

"Don't be glum. Lady Luck is a mysterious stranger (Re-read that last bit a few times and you might see the future of this story), she doesn't have favorites, she just picks one bloke or another," Bond said, and put his deck away.

Ringo pulled out another pouch for Bond and gave it to him.

"Say, do you know any good routes to New Vegas?" Bond asked.

"Huh. That's what you ask me? I thought you'd be the type to ask me if I'd seen the guy who shot you. Anyway, there's no real exact routes around here, it's mostly just desert. Head to Novac through Nipton, maybe, Novac has a good hotel you can stay at to rest, and it's fairly close to Lake Vegas. Then you head to Vegas. You don't need 'east, west, north' directions or anything like that, you'll see the Lucky 38 shining at night even from here in Goodsprings if you get up on a high rise. Trudy can give you directions to Novac, if you choose to go that way, since there are a lot of Deathclaws if you decide to just go straight across the desert," Ringo said.

"Thanks for the help. By the way, maybe I wouldn't mind some information on the guy who shot me," Bond said.

"Thought so. I saw him coming through here, the two Great Khans, that's another gang by the way, with him called him Benny. He wore a plaid suit. I think they were talking about heading towards Primm. That's near here, just follow the road. You can probably also see it from here, got a big old carnival ride that's been abandoned," Ringo said.

"See you later, Ringo," Bond said.

Ringo mumbled something, sunk down in his seat with his arms crossed. Bond left. Time for some casinos.


	5. Martinis and Revenge

(Note : Although so far this has been mostly a James Bond version of a Fallout New Vegas novelization, this is where it starts to stray from the main storyline. And I don't own James Bond, of course. And seriously, leave reviews! How else am I supposed to know anyone's reading this? Also, granted, in this one he's a bit more Daniel Craig-y, but through the rest of the story he's strictly book Bond.)

CHAPTER FIVE

_Martinis and Revenge_

Bond stepped away from the blackjack table. He'd won the game, his altogether amount of money adding up to 1,234 caps. He'd lost a bit of money at first but had eventually won it back. When he'd finally reached New Vegas he bought a new set of clothes. A new dress-shirt and black suit and bow-tie. It felt familiar on him.

Satisfied he'd gambled enough, Bond turned in his chips, got his money and made his way to the elevator. When he arrived in the hallway containing his room he noticed it was awfully quiet. Standing by the first two doors on opposite ends of the hallway were two men in suits and hats, their hands crossed in front of them. What were they doing there? Perhaps they were body-guards of the people in the rooms they stood in front of? Bond eyed the two as he walked past them. They made no movement, but he reached in his pocket to reassuringly hold his Walther PPK, then realized they'd taken it off of him when they'd searched him. Uh oh, Bond thought, and before he could turn around the butts of two guns hit him hard in the head. Then came darkness.

He was awoken later with a splash of whiskey to the face. Bond tried to move his hands up to his face to wipe off the whiskey and then confront the thrower, but realized they were tied behind his back. Then he thought that it had been a dumb idea to come to New Vegas first thing off from coming from the grave. The people who tied him up could have some grudge against him for some deed he'd done that he couldn't remember.

Eventually, Bond blinked his way back into clear vision, and in front of him stood a man in a chair. He had short, brown hair, looked young, and wore a yellow plaid suit.

Benny.

"Ring-a-ding, baby! Guess you finally woke up, huh? Now, the real question is, do you remember me?" he asked.

"I know you shot me," Bond said.

"Great detective work there, but why'd you come to New Vegas? We can't have anybody going on any crazy vendetta's, now can we? I like a bullet, but not when it's coming my way," Benny said.

"Where am I?" Bond asked.

"Where do you think? You're still in the casino, don't worry, I didn't bring you to Freeside, hell, I wouldn't touch that even if it was medicine for a sickness I had. You're just in my office," Benny said.

"What now? Do you plan to kill me? It didn't work the first time, Benny, what makes you so sure it'll work this time?" Bond asked.

"A bigger gun. And don't worry, I'm not gonna shoot you yet, I need to find out why you came after me," Benny said.

"Revenge," Bond lied. He'd actually just come to enjoy the casinos.

"Well, that's not such a biggie is it? Now all I need to do is shoot you," Benny said.

"Not quite yet, Benny," Bond said, and swung his arms out, grabbing Benny by the back of his head, raising his knee, and slamming the two together. He'd freed his hands of the ropes as Benny had talked. He quickly picked up the gangster's gun as he overturned the chair so the legs were facing the door, and as the shots began, rammed the chair into one of the two gangsters by the door, uprighting it to slam full weight against the goon, then swinging out his other arm from his makeshift shield and shooting the other goon in the head. He dropped the chair, letting it and the unconscious goon that had been trapped behind both slump to the ground on their sides.

Bond lit a cigarette, again the last one in his pack, and threw the pack on the dead goon's body. He turned around and looked at Benny, sprawled across the ground. He walked over to him, raised the gangster's hand, and pressed the burning end of his cigarette against the palm. It took a second or two for the pain to reach him, then Benny cried out and awoke, swinging his hand away and then clutching it with his other.

"Benny, it's time for me to ask questions. Who do you work for?" Bond asked.

Benny looked over at his two body-guards, one unconscious and the other dead, then remembered his bleeding nose and the fact that the man also now held his gun. "I don't work for anybody, I'm head Chairman of the Tops," he said.

"Why did you shoot me?" Bond asked.

"You were trying to kill me," Benny said.

"Why?" Bond asked.

"How am I supposed to know?" Benny replied.

"Think, Benny," Bond said.

"I don't know, I think you were some NCR guy, but one of the special ones, not just a soldier boy," Benny said.

NCR? Bond thought. So he was involved in some kind of military position, a special one.

"Thanks, Benny," Bond said, raised his gun a bit higher, and shot Benny in the head. Bond then stood up and left the room and left the Tops Casino.

"Commander Bond! We didn't think you'd ever show up! M. is upstairs in his office, you should probably see him," the NCR soldier behind the desk said.

Bond thanked the soldier then walked upstairs to M.'s office and opened the door.

Sitting behind a desk was M. A bullet in the head couldn't make Bond forget him. The stern sailor's face looked up at Bond, and said flatly, "007. Glad you're alive, it's been a while since we've seen you, last time we saw you was when we sent you on that mission to investigate the Tops Casino."

"I'm afraid I wouldn't remember that mission, sir. A while ago the man who owned the Tops Casino supposedly shot me and buried me alive. I was dug out by a local RobCo robot and then made my way here to New Vegas. It wasn't till I confronted Benny that I even learned that I worked for the NCR," Bond explained.

M. grunted. "Is Benny dead?" he asked.

"Yes," Bond said.

"Hmph. Well, you should rest, 007. We can book you a room in some hotel, not the Tops, of course, but maybe the Ultra Luxe. I have a feeling you'll like it there. I'm afraid your job may not be as much paperwork anymore, 007, with the world as it is. In the morning I'll give you another mission, but for now rest. I'm sure you've had quite the adventures getting here," M. said.

(Short chapter, I know, but I'm probably just about to upload another one! Leave reviews!)


	6. A Double-O's Apology

(Note : I have now learned that I at least have one person following and favoriting this story. A great honor! I asked some people what they think about James Bond and a few said he is 'old and boring.' I strongly disagree, and while the expert gambler isn't much of a role model, I love reading Bond stories. I just hope I make it as interesting as Fleming did, while still combining it well with Fallout, as this is an amazing game. Seriously, though, I must have played through it a dozen times.)

CHAPTER SIX

_A Double-O's Apology_

The bed Bond slept in at the Ultra Luxe was the first comfortable bed he'd slept in in quite a while. As soon as he'd gotten to his room he'd slipped off his shoes, taken a long, hot shower till it was cold and still continued to bathe in it, then brushed his teeth, also for a very long time to get all the grime and dirt off that had accumulated over the past few days, and slept. At the moment his trousers were lying on the ground, drying from the bath he'd given them to wash off the blood splattered across the knee and all the other dirt. Bond finished shaving off the beard he'd began to grow over the days of wandering, practiced quick-drawing for a little while (After figuring out who he was, they'd let him keep his gun), and eventually got quite bored as he waited for his trousers to dry. Eventually he tried putting them on. They were still a little damp, but fit to wear at least. Bond lit a cigarette and left his room, then left the casino.

The Strip, itself, was like a normal strip of casinos, but with a hang-over. Securitrons guarded the gates, and behind the Strip was basically a gigantic dumpster with a few people living in it with a gang that had managed to take control.

Bond passed another gate to the end of the Strip. This part was much more quiet, all that was here was a hotel, one without a casino, a repair shop, and the NCR HQ. Bond entered the NCR HQ and walked up to M.'s office.

"Ah, 007. Come, sit down. I trust you had a good sleep at the Ultra Luxe?" M. asked.

Bond sat down in the chair in front of the desk. "A fine sleep. You told me you had a mission for me, sir?" he asked.

"Yes, I do have a mission for you, 007. I'm sure you've heard of Caesars Legion over your travels?" M. said.

Bond nodded.

"Well, your mission very much so involves them. Your mission is to assassinate Caesar," M. said. "Without Caesar, the Legion may be weakened for a short time before they re-elect a new leader. It should aid the NCR in destroying them. Another thing : Your mission is not to plainly walk in, kill Caesar, and walk out. You shall be undercover. Any chance you get to deplete the Legion's resources or weaken them in anyway, you take it. Do you understand, 007?" M. added.

Bond nodded again, then asked, "Why does NCR have such an interest in the Legion large enough to want to destroy it?"

"Well, for one thing about everything the Legion does is against the law, and they're a bunch of slaving, raping savages. But the technical cause is Hoover Dam. The Legion wants to take it, and the Dam is a major source of power for New Vegas," M. explained.

"When do I start the mission?" Bond asked.

"Now. Go get your Legion armor, a guide will escort you to a nearby NCR camp, then it's just a short walk to a Legion camp, then a raft ride to Fortification Hill, where you will start your training," M. said. "Goodbye, 007," he added.

Bond bid farewell, also, knowing he wouldn't be back for quite a while, and left.

It'd been quite a few days since Bond had last seen M., and at the moment he was hiking with a large group of other Legionnaires around Fortification Hill. It was the crack of dawn. Bond longed for the comfortable beds of the Ultra Luxe and the nice hot showers and a good shave as he jogged up the hill, then down, then through the trench underneath the small bridge, then out the trench, then back to the hill, and repeat, with no stop for an hour. Then it was time for a meal, then rifle practice. But Bond could toughen through it, it was just like back in the military. Suddenly Bond wondered how he remembered that. He shrugged it off as yet another occasional burst of memory and focused his mind back on jogging.

As Bond had predicted, an hour later it was time for lunch. Brahmin meat. The stuff was hard as rock, and cold as a rock, too. Bond founding himself practically shoving the hunk of meat right into the side of his mouth and straight to his molars to try to bite through it. After lunch, instead of rifle practice, however, was something unexpected.

Bond had seen the circular fighting grounds in the middle of camp before. As he'd walked by them he'd seen people fighting in them, always with machetes, and he knew eventually he'd have to fight in it, too, but he thought at least he would have had some warning, but now here Bond stood, right in the middle of the ring, staring at two slaves who looked at him greedily, ready to finally get revenge on a Legionnaire after all the torture they'd been put through. Bond knew how to handle a machete, he'd been taught in most every form of combat, but still, these were just innocent slaves, they might even have families waiting for them to find a way to escape and come home. Bond clenched the handle of his machete tight and decided now was no time for his conscience to creep up on him. He'd shot Benny in a heart-beat, he could have let him live, he'd shot the other goon, he might've been able to get him with the chair if he'd swung it quick enough. If anything, now it was more fair to his opponents, as he didn't have the element of surprise.

A bell dinged and the two slaves slowly started creeping up towards him as he backed away at equal speed. Soon one lashed out at him, and Bond quickly parried it. The other one quickly swung for Bond's raised arm, but Bond swung it down straight into the slave's leg, but realized he couldn't cut through it, and that the blade was stuck there. The slave cried out as Bond had to duck away and leave his machete lodged in the man's calf as the other slave made a swing for him. Great, now he was unarmed.

Bond and the remaining slave (The other lay down on the ground, moaning pain) both stared at each other, the slave grinned at Bond, revealing a set of ugly teeth. The poor man had had his life taken away from him, and now he wanted to at least get revenge if he couldn't retrieve his life. He swung his machete at Bond, Bond sidestepped it, wrestled it out of his hands, and then cut the slave's head off.

He started to walk towards the exit. "Where are you going?" the man in charge of the ring asked.

"It's over, isn't it?" Bond replied.

"No, one of the slaves is still alive," the man said.

Bond turned and looked at the moaning slave, then turned back to the man. "He's barely alive, I already won, it's not like he's going to get up and harm anybody," he said.

"You have to kill all opponents to leave the ring," the man said.

Bond started to say something, then realized there was no use arguing with the man. He bent down, picked up the machete he'd dropped, walked over to the slave, and looked down at the poor, bleeding slave.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, and chopped the slave's head off.


	7. A Downpour to Wash Away the Mystery

(Note : Tell me if my James Bond is getting too actiony, I don't want to scare off any fellow traditional book Bond reading readers. This chapter won't have any sword fights or quick melee action like some of the last few. Also, it seems I'm getting a few reviews on this story and others, so perhaps my fame is increasing? Another note, I do hope some book Bond readers are reading this, as it is intended to be a book Bond Bond that is in this story, but Bond movie fans are always welcome too! And, again, I don't own anything created by Ian Fleming or anything like that.)

CHAPTER 007

_A Downpour To Wash Away the Mystery_

Bond jogged across the dirt, keeping tempo with his fellow soldiers and making sure not to run straight into the one in front of him or slow down and have the one behind him crash into him. They were always in a perfect line. Bond looked up at the sky. Why wouldn't some rain fall? He knew he was in the desert, but why couldn't the rain just fall and at least wash the grime and dirt and sweat off his face? The sky was suddenly blotted out by the bridge above them, then reappeared sharply, as if to yell at Bond to get back to work.

Bond looked back down at the back of the soldier in front of him, at the brown Kevlar vest he wore over the red tunic, and his short Roman-style hair that they all shared, and that Bond himself was given. He'd grown to hate all the brown and red and yellow colors of the Wasteland, where was all the blue and the green that separated planet Earth from all the other planets, that made it beautiful? Especially the green, there was no green, no grass, no trees, just sand, and dirt, and rocks, and rocks, and rocks, and sand, and sand, and sand. Also, there was no sign of cigarettes in the Legion camp, which, as a chain smoker, annoyed Bond greatly. He assumed the others had been also shoved cold-turkey out of their habit. Despite the fact that the Legion worked their soldiers like dogs, the soldiers all seemed to truly love their cause and believe it was right. None of them seemed to complain or glance looks of resentment at their masters, they all seemed to be cruel, conscience-less robots. Bond had had to train himself to say "Vale," instead of "Goodbye."

Bond sighed as he and the rest of the soldiers exited the trench. He wondered if there was a sort of rank order in where everyone was in the line. He knew there _was _an order, as everyone was in the same place as before, but perhaps the mere soldiers were in the back and continued into the middle of the line and the higher ranks were in the front? Bond shrugged off the thought and continued jogging. The army of Roman soldier doppelgangers was mysterious in most every way, but something told Bond a lot of things he encountered were mysterious.


End file.
